


like a lonely lover's charm

by acertainheight



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: F/F, Mildly Dubious Consent, Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Threesome, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-28
Updated: 2016-02-28
Packaged: 2018-05-23 16:52:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6123121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acertainheight/pseuds/acertainheight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>So she takes another step closer, until her hands are resting on the bed and she's only inches away from Hawke. “I can prove that I'm real. I'll show you something better than a dream,” she says, voice low with certainty and desire, and the demon laughs.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“Can you?” the demon asks—in Isabela's voice, with Isabela's smile. “I'd like to see you try.”</i>
</p><p>(Prompt: Hawke has to fight a desire demon in the Fade. Only the demon is too strong, and Hawke gets pulled into a fantasy about their crush. The crush charges into the Fade to save Hawke, only to find Hawke getting steamy with a desire demon version of them. There's only one way to break Hawke free: join in, and prove that the real thing is better at getting Hawke off.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	like a lonely lover's charm

**Author's Note:**

> found this sitting around unfinished and thought I might make one last contribution to Femslash February! please be warned that, at some points, the consent level is vaguely dubious, in the sense that the desire demon is manipulating them both with sex. and please also note that the demon is in human form the entire time and there's no _actual_ demon sex, in case that's a relief or disappointment to anyone. eesh. none of this is as weird as I've just made it sound.
> 
> original prompt from [x](http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/11099.html?thread=44505691#t44505691), title from [x](http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/lykkeli/getsome.html).

Everything had seemed so easy at first: Kill a demon, collect the reward, celebrate with drinks and Wicked Grace. Hard to get any more straightforward than that. Admittedly, fighting demons tends to be  _slightly_ more inconvenient than gathering herbs or retrieving a dwarf's lucky knickers, but only slightly; Hawke's fought plenty of demons in her time, and she's gotten pretty good at winning. No need to drag any of her friends along this time—this was something she could handle herself. What could possibly go wrong?

A stupid question, really. Because, in hindsight, she may have ignored a few red flags. Possibly more than a few.

Maybe the mage lurking in a dark alley (complete with black hooded cloak, slithery voice, and ominous metaphors) should have been a warning sign. Maybe the mage's promise that he could send her to the Fade, no trouble at all, easy as a snap of his fingers—without any mention of bringing her back—should have left Hawke just a bit suspicious. Maybe she should have paid more attention when he described exactly what sort of demon she was supposed to kill. Maybe—

Well, maybe this isn't the right time to ponder all her missteps.

Because when Hawke opens her eyes again, still reeling from the rush of magic, she finds herself not in the Fade, but in her own estate, without any memory of how she ended up here or what she might be searching for. She takes one step forward, not quite steady on her feet yet, and turns around in a slow circle.

“Erm,” Hawke says, clearing her throat, “is anyone here?” Her voice echoes off the high ceiling of the front hall, and an inexplicable shiver runs through her when her words bounce back distorted and low. There's something distinctly not right here; she just can't quite put her finger on what it is. The answer is stuck on the tip of her tongue—

And then Bodahn rounds the corner, smiling his broadest smile and carrying two glasses and a bottle of wine on a silver tray. “Serah Hawke! You've returned at last! Oh, the mistress will be delighted.”

There's an unfamiliar lilt to his voice and an odd light in his eyes, something... off. Or is there? Hawke shakes her head in a vain attempt to clear her vision and her mind. “Bodahn! Andraste's ass, am I glad to see you. I mean, it's not the first time I've stumbled into my own house with no idea where I am, but usually I have some idea where I've _been_ , at least.”

“Well,” Bodahn chuckles, inclining his head towards the bottle of wine, “mayhaps this will help with your headache.”

Hawke looks at the bottle—dusty, ornate, not the cheap swill she usually stocks in her cellars—and back at the dwarf. She doesn't remember mentioning a headache. “That does seem like a nice idea. The other glass is for you?”

“Oh, dear, no! She's waiting upstairs.”

“Who?” He's right about one thing: she's certainly got a headache coming on now. She pinches the bridge of her nose and tries to concentrate, but her head feels thick and cloudy. It's getting harder and harder to try to put her finger on what feels so wrong.

“Playing coy, I see.” Bodahn laughs and gives her an exaggerated wink. “Enjoy your evening, Serah, if you know what I mean.”

Hawke doesn't know what he means, as a matter of fact, but she's starting to give up on understanding anything tonight. She examines the outstretched tray, takes a deep breath, and shakes her head. “You know what, Bodahn, I think I'll just take the bottle. Open that for me, won't you?”

“Certainly, Serah!” He sets the tray on a side table that Hawke doesn't remember seeing in front of her just seconds ago, and he uncorks the bottle with a breezy flourish before passing it back to her.

She accepts the bottle gratefully and takes a long swig to try and clear her head. She can feel Bodahn's eyes burning a hole in her back from the moment she sets foot on the stairs. By the time she reaches the top, she's taken two more considerable drags from the bottle, and the nagging voice of doubt in the back of her mind is starting to die down.

The door of her chamber is propped half-open. Hawke pauses outside long enough to gather herself (long enough for another gulp of wine) and then, at long last, she pushes the door open the rest of the way and steps inside, letting it swing shut behind her. She hadn't been sure what to expect, but—

“Oh,” Hawke says, rather faintly. “Hi.”

—this hadn't been it.

“Hello, sweet thing,” Isabela purrs. She's sprawled out across Hawke's bed, naked except for her headscarf and the jewelry around her throat, and she looks like she belongs there—like a queen on her throne, wreathed in confidence and cloaked in certainty.

Despite her very best efforts, all Hawke manages in return is a weak croak, her eyes raking over Isabela. She clears her throat and tries again: “Fancy, uh, seeing you here.”

Isabela smiles, warm and wide and more than a little hungry. “Is that a bottle of wine in your hands or are you just happy to see me?”

Hawke opens her mouth and closes it again. She can't remember ever seeing Isabela look so... comfortable, here in her bed. She always looks like she has one foot out the door, like she's on the brink of leaving. But not now. “That—that doesn't even make _sense,_ Isabela.”

“I know,” she sighs, crinkling her nose in a show of disappointment. A familiar, wonderful light dances in her eyes, the one that always makes Hawke feel slightly dizzy. “To be fair, you didn't give me much to work with.”

“How did you even get in here?” Hawke's head is well and truly pounding now. Maybe it's the wine. Or maybe she just needs more wine. There's a thought.

“I live here, silly.” Isabela smiles. “What, you make an honest woman of me and then wonder what I'm doing in your bed?”

That doesn't sound quite right, but—all of a sudden, Hawke can't quite remember what _is_ right. She takes another sip from the bottle in her hands and tries to keep her gaze focused on Isabela's eyes, but it's an impossible task. Isabela takes her breath away, even now, just as utterly as the first time they ever fell into bed together. But she looks different today—rough edges worn down, her smile free of that constant hint of fight-or-flight. Hawke can't stop staring.

“Are you coming to bed or not, Hawke?”

“This doesn't feel real,” Hawke says, shaking her head, but she takes a halting step and then another towards the bed despite herself. It's a dream, it has to be a dream. She's had this dream a thousand times before: Isabela in her bed, looking like she's at home, smiling it means something. Smiling like she means it.

Isabela stretches, languid, with a practiced sort of ease, and holds out a hand. They're close enough to touch now, but the gap between them feels as wide as an ocean. “Let me show you just how real it is.”

Hawke looks at the bottle, looks at Isabela, and shakes her head. Hawke knows herself; she knows she's not going to say no. She's never had that sort of resolve. And Isabela knows it, too.

“Show me,” she says. In that moment, she casts all her doubts aside.

Isabela catches Hawke by the hand and tugs her forward, up onto the bed. The bottle of wine hits the floor with a shattering crash, but Hawke can't hear it—can't hear anything other than the pounding of her heart and Isabela's soft moans into her mouth as their lips meet. Isabela twists them both around and shoves Hawke back against the pillows, fingers vice-tight around Hawke's wrists, one knee slipping between her legs and pressing firm against her.

Locked in position, their lips connect again with a bruising, starving intensity, like they've never kissed before, all clumsy hunger and eager desperation. Isabela tangles her hands tight in Hawke's hair and Hawke cradles Isabela's face in her hands, breath stalling in her throat as Isabela tugs Hawke's lower lip between her teeth and rocks her hips against her. And then, suddenly, the kiss is broken and Isabela's mouth goes to Hawke's neck—sucking, scraping, biting, until Hawke's a gasping mess beneath her.

“Let's get you out of these clothes, sweet thing,” Isabela whispers against her neck, and before Hawke finds the breath to moan out her agreement, Isabela's deft hands are already unbuttoning her tunic and working her trousers off her hips.

Hawke kicks her boots off as Isabela's fingers trace along the hem of her smallclothes. When Isabela's nails scrape against her hips, Hawke moans with need; Isabela only laughs, low and breathy, and slows her pace even more, barely trailing her finger along the edge of fabric.

“Please,” Hawke pants, and then Isabela slides her smalls down to her ankles and runs red-hot hands over her bare thighs.

“I _so_ love it when you say that,” Isabela murmurs. She scatters kisses along Hawke's breasts before her mouth closes hot around her nipple, tugging and teasing it to a peak, and she does the same to the other.

Isabela's breasts are warm and heavy against Hawke's stomach, the weight of her sends little jolts through Hawke with every movement, and all Hawke wants to do is _touch_ her, but Isabela has her wrists pinned against the bed again and there's nothing she can do but jerk her hips up and whimper a helpless plea.

“What's that?” Isabela teases, pulling away from Hawke's breast to peer up at her from beneath long lashes. “Did you say something, sweetness?”

Hawke opens her mouth, but her words dissolve into a cry as Isabela grinds her thigh between her legs. “Please—please _please_ please—”

Isabela releases her. Hawke reaches for her, wild and desperate, intent on tracing every inch of her; she runs her hand down Isabela's side, brushes her fingertips over the soft slope of her stomach, along the wide curve of her hips, cherishing the familiar geography of her body. And now Isabela's hands are on her, too—thunder and lightning, fire and smoke, roaming over her and lingering in each place that makes Hawke moan.

There's a tight, warm _want_ curling in Hawke's stomach and throbbing between her legs, and there's no use in denying it: she cants her hips up against Isabela, grinding against her, but the friction isn't enough.

“Please, Bela—”

“Fuck you?” Isabela wonders, an edge to her voice. “Is that what you want?”

“Yes,” Hawke groans. Isabela chuckles low in her throat and pulls up to kiss Hawke again, a tender brush of lips against hers.

“Or is it what you need?”

Hawke shivers, Isabela's lips tracing a hot path down her neck, back to her breasts. “I need it. I need you.”

“Then you'll have me.”

Isabela reaches down, running her palm slowly over Hawke, stroking the length of her body, and then, at last, her hand dips down, one finger parting Hawke's folds. Hawke shudders; she can feel how wet she is, can _hear_ it as Isabela's finger runs down her again. She tries to spread her legs as much as she can bear, arches upwards into the touch, and Isabela's finger slides into her. Isabela curls her finger, slow, and Hawke's heart stutters and nearly stops as she chokes on her moan.

“Look at you,” Isabela whispers, and when she presses a second finger to Hawke, it slips into her as easily as the first. “I love you, Hawke. You're so pretty when I fuck you. Such a gorgeous thing.”

Hawke wants to speak—wants to beg her to repeat herself, wants to make sure she heard the right words—but then Isabela starts to thrust her fingers into her, slow but steady, insistent, and Hawke suddenly can't remember what she meant to say. Surely there could be nothing more important than this: Isabela's fingers, filling her so completely, pulling back again, pressing into her deeper, harder, curling just right—

Hawke comes apart around her hand, her vision dissolving into electric blackness, her whole life grinding to a stop as the flooding pleasure tugs her under. Isabela's fingers are still curling inside of her, her hips still steadily rocking against Hawke, but she slows now, gentle, guiding her down from this heady peak.

“Isabela,” Hawke gasps, half-weeping and half-laughing, delirious with lust and love and an immeasurable longing. “Yes, yes, Isabela—”

“I love you, Hawke. Tell me that you love me,” Isabela murmurs, scattering kisses along Hawke's hips and stomach. At last she withdraws her hand, a slow drag that makes Hawke shake. Something in her voice changes. “Tell me.”

“I do, I do, you know I do.” Hawke shudders as one last little tremor runs through her, and at last the tension drains from her completely. She gazes up at Isabela, her voice raw with the effort of crying out her name. “I've loved you so long—”

And then she hears a voice from across the room, and she tilts her head to see.

Isabela is standing there, leaning against the doorframe, watching them with sad, dark eyes.

“Oh, sweet thing,” she sighs, “I had no idea.”

*

“I'm so sorry,” Isabela continues. “Hawke, if I had known—”

But she's not sure how to end that thought, and she pauses, lips pursed, taking in the scene in front of her. Her chest aches at the sight: Hawke, flat on her back, love on her lips, the demon in her arms. It's not what she was expecting. But then, she's not sure what she was.

 _I'll go after Hawke, we'll be back in a jiff, she can't have gotten herself into too much trouble._ It's not the first time Isabela has been terribly wrong about something, but this might be a new sort of wrong.

“You're not real,” Hawke says, and her arms tighten around the demon. She shakes her head, eyes frantic. “You can't be.”

Hawke's voice cracks on the _can't_ , a hoarse reminder of Isabela's name tearing from her lips moments ago, and Isabela is agonizingly aware of the warm arousal curling in her stomach. She hasn't been there long, but—long enough. Long enough to watch Hawke writhe and arch and cry out Isabela's name with every breath. “Hawke,” Isabela says, stepping towards the bed, “you know I am. Come on, let's kill this thing and get home.”

But the demon still has her arms—Isabela's arms—wrapped around Hawke, trapping her there beneath her. “ _This_ is your home, Hawke,” she purrs, nibbling at Hawke's ear and earning a gasp for her efforts. “With me. Don't listen to her. She's here to ruin everything.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Isabela snaps, which really isn't the best rebuttal she's ever managed, but with every soft little noise that escapes Hawke's lips, she's finding it harder and harder to concentrate. Hawke is so beautiful like this, so vulnerable, chest heaving and lips parting as the demon's fingers— _Isabela's_ fingers—roam over pale bare skin.

And Isabela is a strong woman, but not _that_ strong.

So she takes another step closer, and then another, until her hands are resting on the bed and she is only inches away from Hawke. “I can prove that I'm real. I'll show you something better than a dream,” she says, voice low with certainty and desire, and the demon laughs.

“Can you?” the demon asks—in Isabela's voice, with Isabela's smile, and, _fuck,_ if that isn't doing all sorts of things to Isabela that she really doesn't want to think about. It shifts off of Hawke, crouching beside her on the other side of the bed. Hawke barely stirs. “I'd like to see you try.”

Isabela's never been one to back down from a challenge. She lifts herself onto the bed, as lithe as a jungle cat with her prey in sight, and settles her hands on Hawke's bare thighs.

“Do you want me to prove it to you, Hawke?”

“Yes.” Hawke glances between the two of them, from Isabela to the Isabela beside her, something dark and uncertain flickering in her gaze. “Prove it.”

Isabela looks at the demon. “You'll let her go if she chooses me, then.”

The demon laughs, a sour tinge to it—familiar yet not quite recognizable, and the sound of her own laughter coming from this creature makes Isabela slightly nauseous. “Do your best,” it says. “I do love bets I cannot lose. I am lust and love and desire. _You_ are a common whore.”

Isabela grits her teeth and bites back a reply, turning her attention instead to Hawke, who's staring up at her through half-lidded eyes. Hawke looks dazed, pupils blown; Isabela's not sure if it's some magical charm or her pleasure alone. Isabela runs the pad of her thumb over Hawke's lips (red and swollen with kisses, _Isabela's_ kisses) and then, finally, presses a chaste kiss to her cheek.

“Hawke,” she murmurs, “as much as I love a good romp, we don't have to do this. I can kill the demon and we'll be done with this. You know the truth, don't you?”

“No,” Hawke says. Her eyes are wild; she reaches up, her fingers fumbling with the laces of Isabela's corset. “No, I don't. You said you would prove it to me. So prove it.”

Isabela hesitates for a moment longer, and then she gives in. She reaches down and helps Hawke undo her laces, and she lets Hawke tug it off slowly over her head. With a tug and a shake, she frees her hair from the scarf, letting it spill in wild waves over her shoulders. “Better?”

“You're so gorgeous.” Hawke reaches up and runs a hand though Isabela's hair. “Oh, Bela. You're so spectacular. I love you, you know.”

Isabela stares at her, heart crumbling in her chest. And then she smiles. “You flatterer, you.”

Their lips meet. Hawke's kiss is slow and sweet, with none of the rough drunken haste that usually marks their kisses, and Isabela can't stand it. She breaks away, trailing kisses along her jaw, her neck, until Hawke's head falls back with a gasp. Isabela sucks and bites at her skin, leaving physical proof— _I was here, I touched you, I'm real._ For a moment, she lets herself forget the where and why and focuses only on Hawke.

And then she hears the demon laugh, too close for comfort, and she pulls back to see the demon creeping close on Hawke's other side—its lips pressed to Hawke's neck and its hand closed around Hawke's breast. “You're too slow. Time's up.”

“Get off of her,” Isabela growls, a sudden possessive spark lighting her up. She's not the jealous type, not often—but she thinks she'll make an exception for this. For Hawke.

“Do you want me to stop, sweetness?” The demon's voice is low and rich.

“No,” Hawke gasps. She arches as the demon pinches her nipple, a strained cry slipping past her lips. “Don't stop, Isabela.”

But when she says the name, her eyes flutter open, and her gaze lands on Isabela—not the impostor. Isabela's heart pounds recklessly. “Hawke,” she murmurs. She kisses her throat again, relishing in the way Hawke's head tilts back and her neck tenses at the first kiss, the way Hawke's body moves for her touch.

The demon moans, an exaggerated, lewd sound, and Isabela catches a glimpse of it from the corner of her eye: pressing long, wet kisses to Hawke's breasts, hands roaming over her.

It's not playing fair, Isabela thinks—but then, demons rarely do.

Two can play at that game. Isabela turns and slams her booted heel into the demon's shoulder, a grim mixture of satisfaction and horror flooding her at the pain on the demon's face—her face—as it recoils back and releases Hawke. Isabela throws her leg over Hawke's waist, straddling her completely and blocking her body from the other's touch, and captures her hands. She draws Hawke's hands up to her mouth and kisses her palms.

“Hawke,” she breathes, lacing their fingers together. “It's me. And I'm real. Focus on me and let me prove it to you.”

“Okay.” Hawke shivers beneath her. There's the faintest glimmer of something close to recognition in her eyes, but it passes in an instant. “I'm focused.”

Isabela kisses down her neck to her clavicle, kissing soft along the line of her collarbone, and then slides down over her body to kiss her breasts feather-light. Hawke gasps and digs her fingers into Isabela's back. She draws Hawke's nipples into her mouth, first one and then the other, sucking and licking until they're hard and sensitive, each touch of her tongue sending a quiver through Hawke.

She trails her mouth down the length of her, along her ribs and the hard plane of her stomach, down to the curve of her hips. She's warm, so pliant to every touch, and Isabela thinks: _I could write a whole book about this, a sonnet for every inch of Hawke, a thousand verses._

Then hands are tangling in her hair, tugging just a little too hard—but not Hawke's, Hawke's hands are still hot in her own—and a chill runs down Isabela's spine even as she feels a wetness spread between her legs.

“Look at you, trying so hard,” the demon whispers, breath cold on the back of Isabela's neck. “Aren't you such a good girl? I'm afraid you'll still lose, of course. You're not what she wants.”

Isabela shudders when the demon kisses her shoulder. The kiss is cold, accompanied by a scrape of teeth too sharp to be human, and it sends an unwanted pleasure coursing through her. “Get off me,” she gasps.

The hands release her hair and run down, over her shoulders, before sliding to cup her breasts. Isabela's stomach turns and she tries desperately to shake the fog settling over her and focus on Hawke—but the the fingers grip her hard, twisting her nipples hard enough that she cries out, faint, the sound muffled against the soft skin of Hawke's hips.

“I could destroy you in an instant,” the demon says, digging its nails into Isabela breasts until the pleasure blurs with pain, mutating into something transcendent—something exquisite. “You'd forget who you are. You'd forget why you ever came here.”

Isabela chokes back a moan as the hands run down over her stomach. She can feel the demon, cold behind her, breathing evenly against her. It runs its sharp nails down her thighs, and this time she can barely bite back her cry. It kisses the back of her neck; she can feel the cold metal of her own necklace against her back as the demon presses closer, caressing her.

For a moment, Isabela can't think; she wants to turn over, collapse beside Hawke, and let the demon crawl on top of her. It would be so easy to give in. But then Hawke shifts beneath her and lets out an _Isabela_ so soft that it's barely a breath, and her mind clears. She kisses down from Hawke's hips to the soft line of the apex of her thigh. And then the kisses change, open-mouthed and hungry, shifting closer, until—at last—she slowly drags her tongue through the warm wetness between Hawke's legs.

Hawke gasps, a sharp sound, and the demon growls against Isabela's neck. It bites at the nape of her neck, harder than a lover's touch, but Isabela can't help a gasp of her own, even as she tries to focus on the steady motion of her tongue against Hawke.

“You like that, don't you?” the demon asks. It laughs. “You're soaking wet with thoughts of being absolutely ravished by yourself, aren't you? Thoroughly... fucked.” It savors the last word, rolling it slowly on its tongue.

Isabela can't object, couldn't even if it wasn't true, with her face buried against Hawke and Hawke's thighs pressing tight around her. All she can do is arch in unwilling pleasure as a rough hand rubs against her smallclothes; the shame floods her for a moment at the sensation of the soaking fabric pressed against her, and then the demon roughly tears through the thin fabric and shoves two fingers into her.

“Isabela,” Hawke cries; she sounds a thousand miles away. “Isabela, _oh._ ”

The sound of Hawke is enough. Even with the demon's fingers thrusting rough and deep within her, drowning her in torrential sensation, Isabela's mind clears. She flicks her tongue up against Hawke's clit with enough pressure to make Hawke's hips buck. Hawke's hands find hers, linking their fingers together again, and Isabela feels as if her whole body's gone up in flames.

The demon pushes a third finger inside Isabela, pushing harder and faster now, and it slides its other hand to roughly thumb at her clit, the pain and pleasure building to an overstimulated crescendo. Isabela's shaking, trembling, pushing back into the demon's touch against her own reason—but Hawke's hands hold her steady. And she endures.

Hawke comes undone not with a shudder but with an explosion—a lightning-burst, a shout so raw and ragged it sounds like it must hurt, a fresh flood of wetness against Isabela. All her limbs tense and then go limp; her thighs fall away from Isabela, and she releases Isabela's hands to scrabble at the sheets instead. Isabela pulls away and kisses up Hawke's stomach to at last collapse on top of her, lips against her neck. She's so dazed by the force of Hawke's orgasm that she doesn't even notice the sudden emptiness where the demon's fingers were.

“Hawke,” she breathes, “oh, Hawke, my beautiful, beautiful Hawke. Please believe it's me. Please—”

And then the demon grabs her by the hair and jerks her away from Hawke, flipping her to her back and pinning her to the bed by the shoulders. It digs its nails into her as she strains against it. “Make her come,” the demon pants, voice sliding into something dark and unfamiliar, “again and again, and still she will not want you. What can you give her? All you have is your body. But she doesn't want a whore. She wants a lover. She'd be so much happier if you went away and left us here in peace.”

Isabela spits up at it, her eyes flashing. “You don't know me. And you don't know Hawke.”

The creature slaps her, so hard her vision swims and she can't quite breathe. When it speaks again, its voice is deep as crackling thunder, and its eyes have gone black, turning her own face into a distorted mask she can't recognize. “I _am_ you now. And I will destroy you. This is my realm, and it's time for you to leave.” It reaches out for her throat, fingers elongating into claws, brown skin turning purple—

“I wouldn't do that, if I were you.”

Hawke's voice is a little tremulous, still a little breathless, but there's a renewed strength to it; she sounds like herself. The demon looks up from Isabela, startled, and Hawke's fist lands square in its face with a sickening crunch. It screeches, pulling away, and Isabela kicks it hard in the chest with both feet, sending it flying over the edge of the bed.

“Oh, Maker,” Hawke says, faint. She looks pale. “Isabela, I think I just broke your nose. I mean, not _your_ nose, but— _oh,_ that's weird, isn't it?”

Isabela laughs and tries to blink away the image of her face shattering beneath Hawke's hand. “Just a tad. Took you long enough to notice.”

Hawke gives her the faintest crooked smile. Her eyes are her own again, as blue and bright as seaglass, the fog of magic gone. “You are the real Isabela, aren't you? Because if not, she's going to be really mad about the nose.”

“You're in luck, sweet thing.”

They stare at each other, half-smiling, chests heaving—and then the world slowly fades from around them. For a queasy minute, it feels as if they're dropping through the air, but then they're standing on their feet and Hawke's clad in her armor again, sword over her shoulders. And before them is not Isabela's form but a towering desire demon, wreathed in flame, its eyes aglow with wrath. Its tail whips through the air and it lets out a keening screech, one meant to strike them down with fear alone.

“So,” Isabela says thoughtfully, “d'you think it has a nicer rack than me?”

Hawke laughs. “Absolutely not. The outfit, though, that's interesting—you don't have anything like that, do you?”

They exchange a grin, and for a moment, all the rest is forgotten and things feel almost normal—or they would, if not for the swirling mist around them, Isabela's torn smallclothes pinned damply to her thigh, and the vengeful demon advancing on them.

“This one's all yours, I think,” Isabela says, and she takes a half-step aside.

Hawke draws her sword. There's a grim set to her jaw; she's all angles and hard lines, dark brows drawn, only the faintest ghost of before still lingering in her eyes. She looks like a hero out of a storybook. Inhumanly beautiful, impossibly strong. And Isabela wonders, then, for one foolish second, if Hawke thinks she's the only one in love—if Hawke thinks she's never made Isabela's heart skip in the same way. If Hawke thinks Isabela was upset by what she heard.

But she banishes the thought, silences her traitorous heart (she knows better—she should know better—than to think such things), and watches as Hawke drives her blade through the demon's chest. It writhes on the blade, screams—with a note of Isabela's voice still lingering in its deathcry, twisting her stomach and sending gooseflesh up her arms—and once again, the world disappears. This time, everything goes black.

When Isabela's vision swims back into focus, she realizes that they're in Kirkwall. None of the unearthly wonder of the Fade lingers; everything is dull and brown and exactly how it should be. She touches the cobblestones beneath her and draws a breath.

“Isabela.”

She turns. Hawke's beside her, brow furrowed and lips parted. The brave warrior is gone; she looks scared, lost for words. Isabela reaches out and tucks Hawke's wild hair behind her ear, her hand lingering against her. “Hello again, sweet thing.”

“I'm sorry,” Hawke says, almost stumbling over the words. She puts her hand over Isabela's, holding it to her cheek. “I don't—I'm not shameless enough to try and deny the things I know you saw, but—I'm just sorry you had to see it at all.”

“Hawke—”

But she charges forward. “I—listen, we can talk about all the details later, but I want to be clear. Don't think that I don't like what we have, alright? I do. It's what I want. All I want. My mind wasn't my own in there. No feelings.”

Isabela lets out a breath she didn't know she was holding. “No feelings,” she agrees. She says it—their rule, _her_ rule—with a liar's certainty, dark-eyed and serious, and Hawke smiles back blindly.

There's a moment of silence, and then Hawke clears her throat. Her sideways smile illuminates her face. “I'm sorry about the, uh, worst threesome of all time.”

Isabela laughs and strokes the line of Hawke's high cheekbone with her thumb. “Absolutely awful. Maybe we'd better keep it just us for a while.”

“If—” Hawke hesitates. She smiles, awkward and shy. “I mean, if you want anything to do with me. I thought that grand display might put a damper on the benefits part, if not the friends part.”

“I'll forgive you just this once, sweet thing. But next time you're in the mood for a good rutting, consider dropping by The Hanged Man instead of cavorting with demons, hm?”

“I'll think about it.” Hawke leans forward, bumping her forehead against Isabela's, and they both close their eyes and breathe deeply for the first time since the day began. Hawke's hand drops away, but Isabela follows it, catching it in her own, weaving their fingers together in Hawke's lap.

No feelings, she reminds herself.

But that's always been easier said than done.


End file.
